


Protector

by jessahme_wren



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Action, Angst, Damsels in Distress, F/M, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Lizzington - Freeform, Red/Lizzie, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-02 19:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessahme_wren/pseuds/jessahme_wren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a year apart, Red and Liz meet in an unexpected way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place one year after 1x06.

-0-0-0-

"Drop it! I said drop it now!"

The man only sneered and tightened his grip around the young girl's neck. He and his small hostage blocked the only door, and Liz was alone. In the perp's arms, the young child began to whimper.

Liz slipped easily from agent to profiler, strategizing in a moment what a better approach would be. Push him too far, she knew, and no one would walk out of there alive.

"You don't want to do this. Why don't you let her go," she said carefully.

She studied him, profiled him in an instant. Mid 30's, low-level man in the criminal world. The way he held the gun was overanxious and aggressive, as if he had something to prove. No visible tattoos on his sleeveless arms, so he hadn't done any real time in prison. Maybe that's why he was doing this? To move up the chain? She looked into his eyes. There was anger there, yes, but also fear, and fear was dangerous.

She inched a step toward him. "Back off bitch!" the man spat. "I'll kill this girl right here I swear I will." His arm tightened around the little girl's neck as if to prove a point.

Liz backed up. "Ok," she said calmly. Liz looked at the little girl he held. Tears had blistered her face and her blond hair was matted. She'd come into the store for something to drink, that was all.

Only minutes prior, Liz's instincts had kicked in when she saw the man in the security mirrors near the back of the store. He looked shifty, she thought at the time, but attributed his behavior to drugs or mental illness and not bad intent. Liz was tired, having worked until well after quitting time, and had popped into this Stop-n-Go for a half gallon of milk before heading home. She and Tom often opted for cereal in lieu of supper when she got home late, and they'd been out of milk for two days.

She couldn't have been more wrong. In what seemed like seconds, the man had pulled a snubnosed revolver from his heavy coat and shot the man behind the register before Liz had any time to react. He was stuffing bills into his pockets when the little girl at the drink case began to scream. Then, he'd spotted Liz.

Liz didn't know if the little girl had parents outside who might have called the cops or if she had walked to the store alone from a nearby residence, but it was evident that no one else was there. The parking lot was empty, and she doubted the clerk had time to press the button under the counter signaling the cops. So far her furtive glances out the window rendered nothing in the form of backup, a frightening realization.

Liz's previous hunger and exhaustion was now fueled with purposeful adrenaline. It sharpened her focus.

She decided to take a different approach. "Listen," she said softly, closely watching the man's face. "Just drop the gun and let her go." Liz could hear her heart beating as she awaited a response. When he said nothing, she added, "A hostage will add about twenty years to your sentence; you don't want that."

Something registered in the man's face, finally, and he seemed to consider what she said, but only for a moment. She noticed then something that she had missed entirely in her earlier profile. He was sick. His eyes were dark and sunken, and he had a slick sheen of sweat across his forehead. His color was ashen and he was underweight.

Add desperation to the fear, she thought darkly.

Suddenly something flashed across the man's face, something primal. Something lethal. It was textbook fight-or-flight. A second later, Liz heard what had set it off. A police siren, but it was blocks away.

In a moment, she saw him raise the gun. The little girl's eyes opened wide in fear and she was screaming, although Liz heard her as if hearing from another room. Almost in slow motion, she saw the little girl fall as he released her. She fired three rounds into the man, hitting him once, twice. The third bullet hit the door, shattering the glass behind him. Why had she missed, she thought absently. And then she realized that her aim was off because she too was falling. Liz's legs crumpled under her; her right leg twisted at an odd angle. A bloom of pain lit up her vision and then faded to black.

-0-0-0-


	2. Chapter 2

-0-0-0-

Red had little time, he knew. After nearly a year of watching Lizzie only from a distance, this was not the ideal reunion he had contemplated. None of that mattered; hearing the gunshots was enough cause for him to intervene. He slammed his shoulder into the service door at the back of the store until it flew open and made his way cautiously through the stockroom. He did so carefully, unsure of the situation and not wanting to put Lizzie into danger. He heard some light scuffling, and somewhere a lonely siren wailed. He had precious little time, to be sure.

He made his way past the little security office of the store, the black and white surveillance camera monitors vacillating between rear, corner, and storefront views of the convenience store in cold flashes through the window. A stark black and white image caught his eye, flickering, static-filled and foreboding. He caught his breath as he stared into the monitor. There in the frame, a man behind the counter bled out onto the dirty tile. Another man in the doorway appeared equally dead. And finally Lizzie, his Lizzie, collapsed on the floor, a gun by her hand. Bleeding.

His heart stopped beating then. His heart stopped beating but he still ran, was still able to get blood to his muscles to fuel his legs. It wasn't fast enough. Nothing he did would be enough until he was at her side.

In less than a minute he was at the front of the store. Lizzie was lying on the floor near the stockroom entrance. He knelt beside her. "Lizzie?" he inquired quietly. Red felt the cold fingers of panic close around his throat. "Lizzie." His tone grew louder. His hands explored her body expertly, handily checking pulse, respiration. He found the gunshot wound. She'd been shot in the upper thigh and blood loss was substantial. Instinctively, he applied pressure to the bleeding wound. Lizzie moaned but did not stir. For the first time since she'd told him to go to hell over a year ago, he felt tears sting his eyes. "Lizzie, just hold on," Red said. He realized he was pleading. He didn't care. He pressed his fingers into the taut softness under her jaw line, searching for the faint thump of her heart. Red Reddington would beg to keep Lizzie alive. He would also gladly take her place.

The sirens were getting closer, but they weren't close enough. Liz needed an ambulance now, and Red knew it. He took off his vest and folded it hastily over the wound. He stripped off his belt and pulled it tight around the bleeding. Her breathing was shallow and she felt cold. She was going into shock, Red realized. Without thinking, he pocketed her firearm nearby and scooped her up. She felt so fragile in his arms, like a bird with a broken wing. He held her close to him, willing her to live. Red made their way through the back of the store and out into the night.

-0-0-0-


	3. Chapter 3

-0-0-0-

The first sound Liz heard was the whistling of a kettle. She had not yet opened her eyes. She had listened to the pressure in the kettle build from a low sloshy rumble to the gentle whistle of release. Nothing like the comforting sound of a kettle when you're lying in bed, she thought mildly. She had not yet considered where she was or why she didn't care.

Her blissful unawareness was momentarily disturbed by a presence at her side. She was still too asleep to care much beyond that. The presence moved closer, and then she felt a hand on her leg.

Liz was thoroughly awake now. Her eyes flew open, and at the same time her hand flew out to stop the assault. She was woozy, but she grabbed the wrist belonging to that hand and tried to wrench it away. The assailant grabbed her other arm in a defensive maneuver, and then there was a peculiar sound (soft laughter?). A man, she surmised. She twisted away from him and tried to get up, but her injury quickly anchored her. The heavy weight of her injured leg was shocking, followed briefly by a flash of pain. She tottered slightly on her feet and the room spun. "Now now Lizzie, not too quickly," he chided softly, "You've been very sick." Warm, firm hands held her shoulders, steadying her. She looked up in confusion and disbelief.

"Red? Red what-"

She heard the kettle screaming now, roaring in her ears. The room tilted. Her body sagged, but she never hit the floor.

-0-0-0-

When Liz awoke again, Red was at her side. She knew he'd been waiting for her to awake, or maybe he was just watching her sleep.

"Lizzie, you were shot. Do you remember that?" He looked at her in that quizzical way of his. She nodded her head. "In the Stop-n-Go," she replied steadily. The pieces were coming together, but details were ephemeral. "Mm hmm," he replied coaxingly. Red was looking at her with such open tenderness that it made her feel uncomfortable. Then, Liz suddenly remembered.

"The girl!" Her body tensed. "Oh, God." She felt dazed. A feeling of sick dread uncoiled in her stomach, and she began to cry. Red smoothed a tendril of her hair on the pillow and then quickly withdrew his hand. "Shh..." he said soothingly, "She's fine. The little girl is fine. You saved her life."

"I have to -" She moved to sit, but Red gently pushed her back down again.

"You have to rest," he finished. "You have a fever, Lizzie. Your leg is infected, but I am treating it. Can I get you anything?"

"I have to call Tom," she said weakly. He didn't answer, only studied her face. He touched one of her tears with the tip of his finger. It disappeared with the contact.

"Where am I?"

"With me." He smiled, momentarily satisfied by his glib response. "At my cabin in the mountains, Lizzie, and that's all you need to know." He spoke with the tone he often reserved for her-matter-of-factly and with gentle authority.

Her mouth was dry, and he seemed to have read her mind as he held the cool glass of water to her lips. "Why do I feel this way," she said weakly. Her head was pounding.

"It's the Demerol, mostly. You've been in a lot of pain and I've kept you comfortable." She looked at him warily. Or compliant, she thought to herself. She wondered absently where her firearm was. He cocked his head slightly, noticing her apparent discomfort. "Do you need some?"

She frowned, closing her eyes. "That shit is nasty," she intoned drowsily, "but also wonderful." He laughed heartily at that. He didn't think he'd ever heard Lizzie swear and he found it delightful. A moment or two later her breathing became slow and regular. He smoothed the hair away from her forehead and pulled the covers up. She looked so at peace; he wished she could feel that way forever. He sat a few minutes longer, watching her chest rise and fall before leaving her to rest.

-0-0-0-


	4. Chapter 4

-0-0-0-

"Hold still."

She complied, albeit painfully. It had been several days since she'd had any Demerol, and her discomfort was still more potent than she would admit to Red. Irrationally, she did not want to appear weak. She was forced to trust him, which she hated. Liz hated being forced to do anything, but now her recovery depended entirely on him. For most of her adult life she had prided herself on never really needing anyone, least of all trusting them. Red apparently had no such problem when it came to her. On the morning of the first day she hadn't needed strong pain medicine, Liz awoke to find her firearm in its holster on the nightstand near her bed.

According to Red, they'd been at the cabin nearly two weeks. She understood why he had not taken her to a hospital, why he couldn't. There was a lot more she didn't understand and probably never would, but that came with knowing Red Reddington.

Red ministered to her leg expertly, with care and precision. She watched as he did his work. He was careful not to hurt her, but it hurt nonetheless. His head was bent in concentration, and his able fingers probed at the healing flesh, now puckered and discolored by the retreating infection. She marveled at how deftly he moved. What could this man not do?

"What are you thinking Lizzie." He had taken to asking her that and she found it unnerving; most of the time he had a spooky habit of reading her thoughts. Without looking from his work, he asked her again. His voice had an even, almost hypnotic quality. She frowned. "I'm thinking of how this hurts like hell," she gritted. With this she moved her leg reflexively, disrupting his ministrations. "Lizzie..." he warned. "It will hurt worse if you keep moving." He held her leg firmly with his other hand to prove his point.

The cabin was small but well apportioned, with fresh white linens, rustic furniture, and a lovely little kitchen that took the morning sun well. It was stark in comparison to Red's usual posh surroundings, though. Liz did not question the seemingly endless stock of food and hospital-grade medical supplies, or the closet full of clothes, all in her size. Liz had learned not to question Red too much; questions only wrought more questions. She sighed. As charming as the little cabin was, it was as enigmatic as the man who owned it.

As for Red, he looked different, as well. Instead of his usual immaculate suits, he wore fresh-laundered khakis, crisp dress shirts, and sweater vests. L.L. Bean by Red Reddington. Surreal. So much of this was surreal, she thought.

Finally, he was done. He patted her leg gently indicating the completion of his task. Her leg was freshly dressed and it felt a little better. He looked up at her with that quirk of a smile that was standard for him, looking at her so deeply that she wondered what he saw. She licked her lips nervously.

"I have to go home, Red."

He put away his medical supplies systematically, ignoring her for the moment. "You don't," he said finally. He turned to her and extended a hand to help her off the table. Begrudgingly, she took it. "Cooper knows you are alive," he said simply. She looked up at him, startled by the admission. In the week she had been conscious, he had said very little despite her constant inquiries. "They found your blood at the scene." Red's voice softened, remembering that awful night. "The next day they were notified that you were wounded in a black ops mission, completely off the books even to them. Cooper is convinced that you are safe and by regular updates from an anonymous but very reliable contact inside the Bureau."

She blinked at him, disbelieving. "And Tom?"

Red frowned imperceptibly, and when he spoke, there was a trace of acid to his tone. "Tom believes you are on assignment, but he does not know you were injured."

"What about the surveillance video at the store," she asked. A shadow passed over his face before it slipped behind the usual mask. "Dembe was very thorough," he said simply.

So, no one knew where they were, she thought. Red's tracking chip had been removed at the end of their agreement, and this phony mission cover had been undoubtedly padded by Red's extensive list of resources both inside and outside the criminal world. It frightened her, the lengths he would go to where she was concerned. If what he said was true, she was free to go or stay; the choice was hers. Maybe that's what scared her the most.

-0-0-0-


	5. Chapter 5

-0-0-0-

The next two days were spent in companionable silence. Red spent his mornings reading and cooking breakfast. Liz was amazed to find that he was an exceptional cook, yet she really shouldn't have been. She had yet to find anything that Red was not was not an expert at.

Liz could walk with a cane, and soon after the first snowfall, Red encouraged her to spend time outside. She found the snow in the mountains to be beautiful; it stayed pristine, unlike the black slush that would accumulate along the winter sidewalks back home.

Home. She should go home, she knew. Since the accusations and inquiries over a year ago, she and Tom had worked to repair their relationship with only partial success. There was a latent awkwardness between them that she knew in her heart might never be remedied. It might not be ideal, but it was still a marriage. Hers.

She put it out of her mind. Her leg was healing, but it seemed that other things were healing too, things about herself that she hadn't even realized were sick. She felt (for lack of a better word) clear.

And the whole time Red watched her. He provided, but did not patronize. He supported her, but he wasn't smothering. He gave her space, and that was quite unlike him. Liz needed that the most, though, and for the first time since she had known him, he seemed to respect that. A lot had happened over the past year, and she and Red had not parted on good terms. The situation with Tom remained unresolved. So much made so little sense, even a year later.

She walked outside onto the little patio and brushed the snow from one of the Adirondack chairs. She sat down, folding her good leg under her and pulled her sweater close. It was late. The sky was clear, and the stars danced like individual flames.

She felt rather than heard him. He crossed the patio to stand behind her and without a word draped a blanket across her shoulders. She accepted it gratefully. "I thought you were in bed," he said, a little bemused. "Are you having trouble sleeping Lizzie?"

"Not really," she said. "It's just so nice tonight."

Red smiled. "It certainly is." He handed her a steaming beverage from a table inside the door. It smelled of alcohol and butterscotch. "Do you mind?" He gestured to an empty chair nearby. She looked at him, a little confused. She couldn't remember him ever asking permission for anything, especially with her, and it caught her off guard. "Not at all," she said.

He brushed the snow from his own chair and sat down. Red sipped at his drink thoughtfully and looked into the clear night.

"How did you find me?" she asked quietly. Her memories of the shooting were still hazy, but she knew Red had materialized from thin air to save her life that night.

"You know how," he said simply. "You must have known."

She did know. There were times when she had felt his presence. She knew who/what it was instinctively, but it did not bother her and he never interfered. When the Tom situation had dissolved their working partnership, Red had slinked into the shadows. At the time, she had been content to leave him there.

"How long have you been following me," she asked.

He quirked his mouth. His Lizzie was always full of questions. "I prefer 'looking out for you,'" he said wryly. "It sounds much more civilized, don't you think?" He shot her a little half grin and his eyes sparkled.

"I don't need anyone looking out for me," she said flatly.

He smiled in the dark. His Lizzie. He took another sip of his drink, wrapping his fingers fully around the warm mug. "That's certainly true," he said quietly.

The night grew cold. Liz gathered the blanket around her and made her way back into the warmth of the small cabin. When she passed Red, she extended her hand to rest on his shoulder. "Thank you," Liz said simply. Red did not meet her gaze; his eyes were fixed on the tree line. "That isn't necessary," he said to the dark. She couldn't see his face, but his voice was tinged with emotion.

"Well thank you anyway," she said again, and smiled. Her hand trailed off his shoulder as she went inside.

The door behind him closed with a soft click, leaving him alone. He smiled softly behind is cup. "No Lizzie, thank you."

-0-0-0-


	6. Chapter 6

-0-0-0-

It was late in the day before she came out of her bedroom. Her limp was almost gone now; she walked with the assistance of a cane for trips longer than to and from the kitchen, but was otherwise free. The pain was almost gone as well.

Red was uncharacteristically quiet. He read the paper in front of the fire, but did not turn to look at her. A glass of wine was beside him, mostly untouched. "Good morning," she said.

"Good afternoon," he corrected behind his paper. She could see only the back of his head and the flickering shadows of the fire through the newspaper. It must have been quite late in the day.

"Come sit with me Lizzie." He seemed preoccupied. He folded the paper and lay it on the table next to the couch. She complied, but Red's tone made her wary. He held out his hand to assist her in sitting as had been his custom since her injury. She was nearly healed now and didn't really need the assistance, but she took it anyway.

"Lizzie, we need to talk," he said as she settled on the couch near him. She looked at him intently. The light from the fire danced across his face in sharp shadows. He took a breath, and then looked her in the eyes. "Gina was right," he said. "I ordered the hit on the Russian defector at the Angel Station hotel."

She felt as if someone had cut off her air. So he had lied, just as she thought. Liz's eyes stung with unshed tears, and she looked away. If she couldn't stop from crying, she wouldn't let him see it.

"Lizzie, look at me. Look at me, Lizzie." He touched the side of her face and gently guided it. "I ordered the hit," he said into her eyes, "but Gina did not carry it out. Tom did."

She heard him through layers of betrayal like muddy water, layers of old hurts scabbed over in denial. "No," she said through her tears. "You're a liar. You said so yourself." He reached out to her, but she slapped his hand away. The fire crackled in the hearth between them, and all she wanted to do was get away. She moved to stand, but he grabbed her roughly, right over her scar.

"Tom was an operative working for one of my clients," he spat out deliberately. He turned her so she could not avoid looking at him. "I was not his handler but I organized the hit."

"No," she said weakly. "No." Her face was wet with tears, and he was hurting her. He had her by the shoulders so tightly she felt she would break.

"Tom pulled the trigger, Lizzie. Tom pulled the trigger with the gun in that box." His face was inches from her now, and his eyes were dark. A little shiver of fear ran up her spine. "You know it's the truth."

She expected him to release her then, but he didn't. Instead, he pulled her closer. She wouldn't look at him. "Lizzie," he said tenderly, "Lizzie I'm so sorry." He cradled her face in his hands, then folded her into his chest. They stood there in the light of the fire as he embraced her gingerly. "I've never lied to you Lizzie, and I never will."

-0-0-0-


	7. Chapter 7

-0-0-0-

He showed her everything. Sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of the fire, they poured over the evidence, the surveillance tapes and Tom's dossier that was forwarded to Red upon sell of the contract. Then, Gina. Tom was intimate with her, that much was clear. Liz fixated on the last photo, a long-angle lens shot of the two of them kissing in a park.

Red watched with no small measure of pain as Lizzie poured over the minutiae of her husband's double life. If he could have spared her this, he would've; he would've done anything to keep from hurting her. She leaned back against the couch, letting the photos spill from her lap. "How could I have been so stupid," she murmured to no one. Red looked at her tenderly. "Intelligence is often overridden in matters of the heart," he said softly. He thought of how many seemingly stupid things he had done for just that reason. Just for her.

She looked up at him, suddenly indignant. "I'm a profiler, an expert in deception, of body language. I should have known." Her expression was so broken, so lost that it made him angry. "You did not know, Lizzie, because you did not want to know," he said quietly. "You are a gifted profiler and a capable agent, far better than the suits you work for would have you believe."

He leaned back against the couch next to her. The two of them sat amid the evidence of Tom's deception, their bodies nearly touching. "You did get one thing wrong, though," Red said thoughtfully. "You profiled me once as a man who has no real friends, who is at home with strangers and comfortable anywhere." You were right about the friends, Lizzie, but I am only at home, I am only comfortable when I'm with you."

His candor confused her as it usually did, but she could not deny the deepening color in her cheeks. There was so much she did not understand about this man, about his infatuation with her. She didn't call him on it like she usually did. She closed her eyes and put her head back on the couch.

"I was wrong about the friends, too," she said quietly. Then, she lay her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. He was warm. Red smelled incredible, exotic and masculine. She couldn't understand why she had not noticed before.

Red felt her head grow heavy and her breathing relax. Gently, he slid his arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him. He let his hand brush under the hem of her shirt. His thumb made little circles there, and Lizzie hummed contentedly.

She turned into him, resting her hand on his chest. The steady beating of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest were like an anchor. She'd been spinning out of control, freefalling. This was the first time in a long time that Liz felt truly still.

The warm tether between them was so palpable Red would scarcely breath. Like a tenuous flame, he feared snuffing it out with the slightest movement or thought. He imagined a flow of energy where they touched, and the longer the contact, the more his desire for her, body and soul, deepened.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I'm sorry I called you a liar." In the firelight, he smiled. His hand went up to stroke the back of her arm. "I am a liar Lizzie, just not with you. Never with you." He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the faint scent of strawberries and jasmine.

Her eyes slipped closed. Everything in her life was a fraud. Her marriage, her family. Her job, to a certain extent. Nothing was real. Red, however, felt real.

"Will things ever be right again?"

He wanted to protect her, to take away her pain. He couldn't. Red couldn't take away his own.

"Probably not," he answered her quietly, "Not in the conventional sense." Red smoothed her hair. "But you will make a new right."

-0-0-0-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have started a prologue, but the main story ends here (or is it only a beginning?). Thank you for reading :).


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red and Liz come to terms with what they now mean to each other.

A/N: I had some unfinished business with these two. I hope you don't mind the revisit. As I always, I would love to hear what you think. Your comments convinced me that there was a little more story yet.

-0-0-0-

Liz's boot heels clicked on the frozen sidewalk, and a bitter wind announced her arrival to a few sparse trees, marble and granite, and little else. The Lincoln Memorial was a solitary place even when it wasn't this cold, part of the reason their meeting place was so appropriate. As the vista came into full focus, she could see a lone man on a bench overlooking the Reflecting Pool. The dark lines of his winter coat and fedora stood in crisp contrast to the stark landscape. It was a familiar silhouette.

Her heart flipped. It had been three months since she left the cabin, and their time together seemed an age ago. She had not seen or spoken to him since.

She finally stood before him, and she could see herself reflected in his mirrored sunglasses.

"Hey," she said breathlessly. She could think of nothing else. The cold air stabbed at her lungs; the weather and her nervousness at seeing him again made her rue the still-warm car parked just out of sight.

He smiled up at her for a few seconds as if comparing the face before him to the one he had memorized. Wordlessly, he patted the place beside him on the bench, and she complied. They sat for a long moment, their breaths clouding in little puffs and mingling in the frozen air. "It's not like our snow, is it Lizzie?"

Liz smiled then, remembering the cabin. "No it isn't," she said quietly. The memory made her tremble a little, or it might've just been the cold. She moved a little closer to him. In their respective winter clothes, she could not feel the warmth of him that she knew was there, the warmth that had her saved her, nurtured her for weeks when they were the only two people on earth. The warmth was cruelly contained. She eyed his multiple layers spitefully.

"So why are we here," he asked flatly. Red was usually the one who arranged their meetings, and the role reversal obviously intrigued him. Liz found that he had an edgy somberness about him that he was not attempting to hide behind biting wit, for once.

She studied her hands through her gloves. "Tom was arrested. And I've filed for divorce."

Red grew quiet, turning it over in his mind. "I know," he said finally. Briefly he registered her surprise. "Just because I don't work with the FBI anymore, Lizzie, does not mean I don't pay attention."

Pay attention was Red's way of admitting he was still "looking out for her," as he called it. She wondered briefly how many physical therapy sessions, grocery runs, and nasty domestic arguments he had witnessed in the last few months.

Liz studied his face, trying to read it. She couldn't, especially with the mirrored lenses. She simply nodded.

"Where were you Red? Last year." She'd often thought of how he'd spent his first year of immunity. Had he walked in the open, soaking up life in the light of day, or was he still wanted by countless faceless men? She hoped it was the former.

"Everywhere and nowhere," he said quietly. "I traveled. I moved along the perimeter. I stood in the midst."

But he didn't belong anywhere, she thought. She looked at him, openly searching his face. To her knowledge, Red Reddington had no stable place of retreat, a place where he could feel settled and safe. A home. She wondered briefly if he even wanted that.

"Come back," she said suddenly. "Come back to the FBI."

She watched as a darkness slowly crept over his face. He stood, hands jammed in his pockets, and spoke over the Reflecting Pool. A muscle in his jaw flexed.

"Did Cooper send you Lizzie? Did he send his little errand girl to beg the devil another turn?" His tone was acid.

She frowned, not understanding his sudden mood. Red could be nasty when he wanted to and he had to know that last little jab stung. She walked toward him. "I want you back, Red. No one sent me."

Red listened to the bone-rattle in the trees from the rising wind and gathered his scarf tighter. He looked at his Lizzie. Her blue eyes were liquid and there was a tinge to her cheeks that had something to do with the blustery cold, but not entirely.

"Your leg has healed beautifully," he finally said. He was studying her curiously.

Liz was accustomed enough to Red Reddington not to take his social whims as an insult. He often changed the subject to steer the conversation in his favor, especially when he felt threatened or uncomfortable. She humored him.

"I had excellent care," she said knowingly. Again, she sought his eyes behind the mirrored lenses. He never met her gaze.

-0-0-0-

The car he had sent for her pulled up in front of a brownstone in D.C.'s historic district. It was old, affluent, and from the outside at least, very Red. Without her having to knock, Dembe opened the door for her and ushered her inside. She walked down a brightly lit corridor, her footfalls resounding too loudly and making the space seem cavernous and bereft. She found him on the couch, seemingly mesmerized by the fire that crackled in the hearth and absorbed in his own thoughts.

The room was like all of his rooms-rich, comfortable, and curiously lived-in. But it was soulless. When Red took his leave this would be just another room, another unused bookshelf, another half-empty bottle of Scotch. He might return. He might not. The house would sleep until that time, empty and cold.

He didn't turn around, and she didn't look at him. She settled on the farthest end of the couch and put her hands on her knees. They sat for several moments.

"Why does the FBI suddenly want me back," he said finally, "when for all the assistance I provided I was only ever treated as an annoyance?"

She narrowed her eyes. "There's still bad guys to catch -"

"The Blacklist is complete, Lizzie."

She sighed. "I know," she said. "The Bureau is forever in your debt."

Red scowled. "If you're here with a fruit basket, Lizzie, I received compensation for my work for the Feds. I have my immunity. I got what I wanted. Thank you for the empty sentiments, but they're not necessary."

She stared at him, her lips parted slightly in surprise. He had slipped into that dark mood she had witnessed at the Reflecting Pool and she had no idea why. As a profiler, she often felt completely incompetent around him.

"Red I -"

"Why did you come here, Lizzie?" His voice was even and most of the previous darkness had dissipated. Instead, there was a quiet sadness.

"You sent a car."

He ignored her sarcasm. "Why should I go on hunting your monsters when I'm one myself." He asked but didn't ask, and his eyes never left the fireplace.

She well remembered calling him that but had ceased to feel guilt over it. She had done monstrous things since. It no longer seemed to matter to her what he was, but who.

She smiled. "There's just no fun in it if you're not there."

His mouth twitched at hearing his own words parroted, a taste of his own medicine. He fixed his mouth.

"I'm not coming back to the FBI, Lizzie." His voice was low, resolute.

To her knowledge, he had never denied her his company. Other things had been denied, of course, but if she needed to see him, be with him, work with him, she need only ask. She hadn't expected the jolt of his words or the gaping maw they left in her chest. She opened her mouth to speak, but the vacuum left in the wake of his pronouncement stole her words.

"I would, however, come back to you," he said.

Her eyes widened in surprise, and she turned to him. He watched her, waiting for her to fill in the gaps as was his custom, his face smooth and expectant. The firelight on his features drew erratic patterns, and she wanted to cover them with her hand.

Her lips parted and a little air rushed into her lungs. "In what way," she asked quietly.

He only hesitated a moment. "In every way." He was looking at her so deeply, so intently she had to close her eyes.

Tentatively, he closed the distance between them and put out his hand. He touched the crest of her jaw line, and the pads of his fingers were cool.

"Lizzie," he said simply.

She heard so much more than the word. That one word was a soliloquy, a stage on which to share a dozen interpretations and inflections of a character. How many times and in how many ways had he said her name? She opened her eyes and met his warm gaze.

"I am no longer satisfied with standing in the shadows," he said. "I want to be at your side."

The naked honesty made him bolder. He smoothed his thumb over her cheek, his cool fingers threading through her hair to caress her neck. She fought to keep her eyes open.

"If you want me back," he said, "it has to be for the right reasons."

She looked at him with wonder, realization dawning. The little touches, his over-protectiveness, the long nights spent talking on couches not unlike this one. How she fit into his world. She let out a breath she was unaware of holding.

"I've missed you Red."

She smiled at the understatement; there had been nights in bed with her husband when she had only seen Red's face.

Liz wanted to say more, but her vocabulary was scrambled by his proximity, by the warmth of her feelings stirring just below the surface. He need only trouble the waters a little more for that current to breach the bank and sweep her dangerously into uncharted territory.

He cupped her face in his hands and for one excruciating moment she thought he might kiss her. He didn't. He lay his forehead against hers, was somehow far more intimate than a mere kiss. His countenance filled her vision, and she felt completely possessed by him.

"I die every day I'm not with you Lizzie." His warm breath puffed against her face, and the throaty timbre of his voice awoke something sleeping inside her, something practiced and restrained.

Her hand went up to slide along the smooth plane of his chest, needing to touch him. She relished in the taut firmness, the anchoring strength and dangerous unknowing that so characterized the man. The heart beneath her fingers drummed steady and strong.

He withdrew, breaking their momentary fusion, and studied her face. His was curious, warm yet unreadable. He lay his hand over hers where it rested on his chest, and his previously cool fingers now seemed to radiate an ambient warmth. Red traced the back of her hand with his fingers, a whisper of a touch. His eyes never left hers.

Gingerly, he turned her hand to expose the ragged scar. He registered the brief flinch, the change in breathing; Liz was protective of it, he knew, yet her apprehension did not thwart his intentions or prevent him from marveling at it, at her, like some new and beautiful discovery. He'd only seen it so closely once before, the day they first met.

He traced the angry edges with his forefinger and then brought it to his lips.

Instinctively, she tensed. A nervous apprehension prickled her spine, fueling the growing warmth inside her, and she let out a ragged breath. She did not stop him. She watched with rapt attention as Red kissed her hand, her wrist, a penitent benediction. His teeth brushed the sensitive skin of her scar and she shivered.

Red chuckled softly, a low mirthful tide rising in the space between them. He relished the effect he was having on her.

Abruptly, she drew her hand away. His eyes flashed with momentary disappointment, but before he could mourn the loss of her touch, she grabbed his lapel and pulled him closer, pressing her lips to his.

He hummed contentedly as his lips moved over hers. The sound reverberated through her face and down into the growing heat at her core. She forgot to breathe.

His tongue flicked, entreating entry into the heat of her mouth, and she opened readily for him.

She had never been kissed like this, had never born the brunt of such raw and aching need. Not from her husband, not from anyone. She moaned against his mouth, an involuntary sound. Her fingers trailed down his neck and found the little scar where the chip had been. In the past year, she had missed the security of knowing where he was, of what that little blip on the screen represented. While he was working with the FBI, she had often monitored his position from her computer while Tom lay upstairs asleep.

Regrettably she broke the kiss, breathless and gasping in the air between them. She could not lose him again, she realized, could not bear to let him slip into the shadows of the world and leave her alone.

"Come back to me, Red." She searched his face, his eyes ripe with desire and something akin to awe, to love. "Come back to me for the right reasons."

He smiled then, and it was as if the veil that he had so carefully worn to temper his feelings for her fell away. He did love her, she realized, completely and with a terrifying depth.

She looked at him, awaiting a response. He did not speak it. Instead, his arms enfolded her, warm and strong, and his hand slid around to settle just above the small of her back. He tucked his face into her shoulder and sighed.

He was home.

-0-0-0-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. It's a risk revisiting a story, I know, but hopefully this adds to rather than detracts from. I would love to know what you think.


End file.
